


Paying Dues to Every Moment Wasted on Words Left Unsaid

by npse



Category: Korean Drama, 花郞 | 화랑 | Hwarang (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Confessions, Denial of Feelings, Feelings, Honesty, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Sad, hi this is my contribution to all the angsty hwarang fics on here, i assume anyway idk, i don't know how to tag without spoiling things, lets go with, please let me know if you think this needs other tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/npse/pseuds/npse
Summary: After the events of the show, a necessary conversation takes place. Inspired by a scene from Goblin involving a man in black, a man who had to drink tea and his dog.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, so this is a Thing. Let the record show that this isn't what I'd been intending to write or publish next and yet here we are. I've had this idea for a while and I've been trying to push it aside and publish more fun (read: smutty) fics but this idea literally wouldn't leave me alone after I posted that last fic. I tried to write something else and while I'm halfway through that other fic, this one kept nudging me and begging to be written and it got to a point where I was sick of denying it, y'know? I'm a firm believer that, as a writer, the stories come when they're ready so I figured if this idea wasn't leaving me alone, it must mean that the story was ready to be told and that I had to just let it happen. So I did, and this is what came out. 
> 
> Sorry it has taken me so long to get something new out to you guys. I've been busy securing an internship and graduating university so I didn't have a lot of time to write. I'm still pretty busy but maybe now that I've gotten this distracting idea out of the way, the other fic I'm working on will be easier and faster to write. Fingers crossed, anyway!! 
> 
> Title from If These Sheets Were States by All Time Low. Unbeta'd and being posted at 1am so please tell me of any errors/awkward phrasing because I am potentially going to edit it when I wake up. Hope you like it!!!

Yeowool’s steps are heavy and slow as he makes his way down the concrete stairs. He can’t quite recall how he got there, or where he is at all, but he feels compelled by the forward movement. His body isn’t quite what it once was, a fact he wouldn’t admit outside the safety of his own head, but it does the job.

Every time he drops down another step, it feels as if his joints are being poked with hot pins, burning and twisting with every movement. The steps are without a railing on one side so Yeowool presses his hand firmly against the stone wall beside him as he descends, his swollen fingers and wrinkled skin an almost sweet accompaniment to the weather-worn rocks.

He makes it to a door, old and grey like him, and knocks without really knowing why. He waits for a moment and the door opens, unexpected warmth seeping out of the room as a tall man stands in the doorway. He’s clean, Yeowool observes, and looks solemn in all black attire. He doesn’t even smile.

“Welcome,” the man says, voice a little monotonous but somehow not off-putting. Yeowool feels genuinely welcomed but remains outside, gently apprehensive. He’s always had a good gut instinct and the fact he has no memory of arriving or why makes him wary.

“You’re early,” the man says, and it’s as if he’s caught onto Yeowool’s uncertainty and is trying to ease it with forced conversation. Yeowool appreciates the effort, even if it is a bit awkward, especially as the man dips into a slight bow as he adds, “I wasn’t expecting you yet. Forgive me for being a little unprepared.”

Yeowool can only smile at that, the gesture evoking happy memories within him. There was a time when he was used to being bowed to like that, every time he wore certain colours, but those days have long past. His sentimentality has always been his downfall, he thinks, as he decides then that he trusts the man. When he steps aside and opens his door more, waving him in, Yeowool moves on through.

The feeling is something he’s never experienced before. As he steps into the room, it’s like literal weights are lifted from his shoulders. He feels lighter than he has in years, the burning in his joints melting away. He tilts his head in curiosity, glancing at the man who just offers him a tight-lipped smile, walking ahead and expecting Yeowool to follow. He does, of course, and feels his body rejuvenate as he goes. He lifts his hands and sees the wrinkles smoothen out, his fingers uncurling with ease for the first time in a long time. More importantly, though, he sees very familiar fabric draped over his arms and over the rest of him when he glances down at himself. White, blue, purple.

“How- “Yeowool starts, staring at the man as he takes a seat at a wooden table. He motions for Yeowool to sit down and he does, too awestruck to think of being obstinate. “Who are you?”

The man sits awkwardly opposite him, stiff and contained, but his voice isn’t unkind when he speaks. “I’m here to guide you.”

“Where?”

The man offers another one of those knowing tight-lipped tiny smiles again. “I think you know.”

“How did I get here?” Yeowool tries again, eyes narrowing because this man isn’t answering his questions and his earlier uncertainty is starting to make gentle waves in his stomach again.

“The same way everyone gets here,” he says, equally as uninformative as before.

Yeowool lifts his hands again, examines them closely, before looking down at himself once more. The clothes on his body are more familiar to him than anything else in the world and he’d think he was dreaming if it wasn’t for the way his heart was so calm in his chest. He isn’t concerned. Just curious.

He notices his hair then, long, sleek and black, as it falls over his shoulders. His hand reaches up to touch it and it feels like it used to, soft and smooth, and he looks back to the man.

“I’m young again,” he says, as simple as that despite all the reasons why it isn’t.

The man tilts his head a slightly. “In some ways, yes.”

“How?”

The man’s lips quirk in the corners slightly and Yeowool takes it to mean that he won’t tell him. He has to figure it out for himself.

Yeowool sighs, starts absentmindedly stroking his fingers through the ends of his hair again as he takes in his surroundings. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to do it, his hair having thinned out years ago and his hands becoming harder to use with each passing day, but the familiarity of the habit makes Yeowool smile to himself without even realising it.

The room itself is warm and mostly wooden – the table, the counters, the seats, the shelving on the walls – but there’s an indoor fire in one corner and it surprises Yeowool. Things like that aren’t typical of their time, though he had heard of it, certainly. The shelves are filled with tea sets of varying designs, each box shelf filled with something different. It seems there are no sets the same and Yeowool marvels at the man’s collection.

As if reading his thoughts, the man rises from his seat. “Can I offer you some tea?” he asks, but he’s already moving to make it before Yeowool even agrees. He does so anyway, for the sake of politeness.

Shortly after, the man returns with a singular tea cup and nothing else, setting it on an odd-looking stand in front of Yeowool. He sits again.

“Do you know where you are yet?” he asks.

Yeowool thinks it over, takes in his surroundings and the facts and tries to align it with things he knows. Realisation dawns on him.

“Death’s teashop.”

The man smiles, soft and delicate. “That’s right.”

For the first time in a long time, Yeowool allows himself to look a man over. He’s pale, sure, but his lips are flushed and his cheekbones are high and his hair looks soft to touch. The dark robes he wears washes him out even more but Yeowool thinks he’s attractive. Even with his dark, sad eyes, he looks handsome. Yeowool can’t remember the last time he allowed himself to do this, to take in the appearance of another man over and be okay with thinking that he was attractive. He truly feels like his old self again, his young self.

“And you’re death, I presume?” Yeowool asks.

“No, I’m just a grim reaper. More like a messenger than anything else.”

Yeowool nods slowly, looking around the room again at all the tea cups before looking down at the one in front of him. It was different again to all the other ones he could see on the shelves.

“So, I’m dead?”

The man’s smile is gone as he gives a short nod. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Yeowool says, reaching out to trace a thin finger along the rim of the tea cup with a sigh. “I’ve been ready for a while now.”

“It’s been hard for you,” the man says.

“It’s been longer than I would have liked,” Yeowool admits ruefully and the man nods like he understands.  Yeowool wonders if he does, wonders when he died, how he came to be here and whether his new job feels longer than living ever did.

“That’s why you were early, then,” the man says, quiet and mostly to himself, but Yeowool raises his eyebrows. The man notices and speaks up to explain. “You lost the will to live. It happens sometimes. People arrive earlier than expected because of it.”

“Are you telling me I would have lived longer?” Yeowool’s voice is quietly incredulous.

“Only a little bit,” the man almost smiles around the words, clearly amused by Yeowool’s reaction, “But yes. You would have had more time.”

Yeowool thinks to the life he’s leaving behind, to the farm and the family and the many grand- and great-grandchildren who are no doubt mourning him. He thinks to the plants he waters daily and the baby goat he has been hand raising. He thinks to the stories he had been writing ever since people stopped listening to them, of the beautiful trinkets nobody cared about, of the silk robes and commemorative sword he earned that everyone fought to inherit. He thinks to the emptiness of his home, the loneliness of his life, and thinks he’s glad he decided he was done with living.

“I had more than enough time,” Yeowool says and his voice is tinged with bitterness. He tries not to think about the people he’s known, he’s loved, he’s lost, that got far less time than he did.

“It’s good that you think so,” the man says and he seems to mean it. Yeowool feels reassured by his words, as if his approval means that Yeowool’s going to be okay moving forward, moving into whatever comes next. Despite his awkwardness, Yeowool thinks the man is actually quite good at his job. “The tea there will help you move on.”

Yeowool nods, looking down at it again. The water is mostly clear, tendrils of brown beginning to snake their way around as the tea steeps, with a blooming yellow flower within it. It looks so pleasant that he thinks it’s out of place in this morbid setting, but isn’t that always the way? Beautiful things are always lost in the wrong setting.

“The tea removes your memories,” the grim reaper explains gently and Yeowool pauses at that.

“All of them?” he asks, looking back to him.

The man nods, slow and understanding, like this is the first time he’s had to tell someone this, like it isn’t his job to guide people through the same process all day every day. Yeowool is infinitely grateful for his patience.

“It’s for your own good. It stops you from becoming stuck.”

Yeowool almost snorts at the irony of that. He’s felt stuck for a long, long time. He thinks maybe he can live with it, being stuck, if it means he can keep his memories. It was all he had left anyway, the only thing that had kept him going for so long before he died, even after people stopped wanting to hear the stories of the great things he and his friends accomplished. But even though they were happy memories, his life was miserable living with only that and nothing else and he doesn’t want his death to be the same way. After all, death is forever, isn’t it? He can’t keep being miserable forever.

“They all drank it?” he asks, absently.

“Yes.”

The thought that no one remembers him leaves him feeling hollow. His friends, the ones he loved more than anything else, had forgotten him. He spent all his life remembering them, talking about them, still loving them, and they were at peace without him. He feels guilty for how hurt he is by the thought.

He looks to the shelf of cups instead.

“Which ones are theirs?”

The man follows his gaze, looks over the shelves and shelves of pottery, seemingly never ending.

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I serve a lot of tea, you understand.”  

Yeowool does and he nods, knowing it was stupid of him to ask anyway. He doesn’t even know if the grim reaper knows who he is talking about, let alone whether he guided them as well. He’s just sad and scared suddenly, confronted by the thought of losing the only things that mattered to him for so long. He’s going to be alone for real, now, no memories to keep him company anymore. He draws the teacup even closer to him.

“Before you drink,” the man says, looking torn to have interrupted. “I have something for you.”  

“Oh?” Yeowool asks, lip curving in the corner as he gently teases, “Something to help carry me to the afterlife?”

The man smiles wryly, like he can’t help it. “Something like that. I should reheat this,” he says, taking back the teacup from Yeowool, and rising from the table. The grim reaper leaves the room just as a bell jingles to Yeowool’s left, the door he had entered through earlier opening and shutting.

“Hyung!”

Yeowool freezes, feels goose bumps rise across his skin. _It can’t be_ , he thinks, but his heart is already racing. He whips his gaze toward the noise and the door and there he is.

Hansung.

He’s standing there grinning, wide and unashamed like always. He looks exactly how Yeowool remembers him – bright, young, happy and draped in his Hwarang robes. He bounds into the room in that playful way he had, almost skipping, and Yeowool can’t stop himself from smiling.

“Hyung!” Hansung says again and he’s so close to where Yeowool’s sitting now that he can’t stop himself from jumping up to envelop him in a tight hug just to make sure that he’s real.

“Hansungie,” Yeowool murmurs, feeling his throat tighten at the long-forgotten familiarity of Hansung’s arms around his waist, the smell of his hair in his nose, the feeling of Hansung’s shoulders under Yeowool’s arms. He sighs into the embrace, feeling as if he’s melting into Hansung’s touch. It’s been far too long.

Hansung laughs quietly against Yeowool’s neck and Yeowool can’t stop himself from placing his hand on the back of his head, holding him there as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, Hansung will disappear again. 

“I’ve missed you, Hansung-ah,” Yeowool says and there are tears pricking at his eyes, threatening to come out. He closes his eyes to stop them.

“I missed you too, Hyung,” Hansung says and his voice is light and airy, like always. Like he’s just as happy to see him. He pulls back some from the embrace but they still have their arms around each other, can’t seem to stop touching. Hansung’s eyes rake over Yeowool’s face, taking him in for the first time in far too many years to count. Yeowool can’t help but smile fondly, scratching his fingertips over Hansung’s scalp tenderly. Hansung grins, “Come on, let’s sit.”

He guides Yeowool back to the table and they sit side-by-side on the bench seat, neither of them hesitating for a moment as they turn to face each other again. This time it’s Yeowool turn to look, eyes roaming over Hansung’s features. He wants to memorise it, wants to remember this forever. He had never forgotten what Hansung looked like but he’s now acutely aware of the way the picture in his mind had faded over time – his hair longer, the placement of the freckle on his nose, a smile so much brighter in real life than it ever was in his mind’s eye. Hansung is so much more than Yeowool had remembered. It was just a pity that he would soon forget it all again anyway, the moment he drank the tea.

“You made me wait a long time,” Hansung says, voice playfully whiney like it so often was.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Yeowool replies and he means it. He never wanted to take this long.

“No. Don’t be,” Hansung says, shaking his head and grinning. “I was happy to wait. It meant that you lived a long time.”

“I did,” Yeowool says and his voice is laced with sorrow.

“Was it fun?”

Yeowool watches the young man, catalogues his curious and hopeful expression as he thinks the question over. Had his life been fun? He supposes it has been, in comparison to the young man who had his life stolen far too early. He thinks about all the things he got to do that Hansung didn’t. He thinks about all the inventions and art Hansung didn’t get to see but would have loved. He thinks about what Hansung would have thought of Ji Dwi finally claiming the throne, of Ban Ryu getting married, of Suho and Sun Woo commanding armies, of Ahro’s children. He thinks about the pride that came with being Hwarang, the victories they enjoyed and the way the people of Silla bowed on their knees to them whenever they returned home. He thinks about all the happy things they all did that Hansung missed out on and that now only Yeowool remembers. “Yes,” he says, both out of truth and pity. The tears are back in his eyes again. “Sometimes it was very fun.”

“Only sometimes?” Hansung asks, a line between his brows like he’s forgotten that life can be cruel.

Yeowool remembers everything, the good and the bad, and he remembers it alone. He remembers Hansung’s death and the darkness that overshadowed them all for a long time, for Yeowool longer than most. He remembers Suho’s sadness at the Queen’s death, the way he disappeared without a word, the way it tore at Ban Ryu and their friendship group collectively. He remembers slowly being ridiculed for who he was, how he acted, until he had to stop letting that part of himself be seen. He remembers going into battle with so many of his friends and riding out of battle with less of them. He remembers the deaths of all of his friends – Ban Ryu first, in battle, and Suho not long after, seeking revenge. Ji Dwi next, murdered by assassins looking to claim the throne for someone else, and then Sun Woo, from an unknown, undiagnosed, untreatable disease. Ahro had held out the longest, visiting Yeowool frequently into their old age, until she too fell victim to a disease after dedicating her life to saving others – and he remembers the pain he endured alone, old and forgotten, with the memories of a life that no one else knew anymore.

“Yes, Hansungie. Sometimes life was fun and sometimes it was cruel.”

Hansung frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“It was never as cruel as the day you left, though,” Yeowool admits, blunt honesty in the face of the unbelievable gift of seeing Hansung again.  

Hansung says nothing, just presses his lips together in an apologetic frown. Yeowool understands. There are many things that words just can’t express. Hansung reaches out between them to take Yeowool’s hand and he laces their fingers together with ease. Yeowool can’t help but look down at them, running his thumb over Hansung’s knuckles, fascinated by the contrast of their skin tones. How many times had he thought about doing this with him? He’d had dreams about it before. That’s how much he missed the younger man – he had dreams about doing something so simple with him. The reality far exceeds every dream he’s ever had about it.

“I’m glad to see you, hyung,” Hansung says, heart on his sleeve like always. His thick voice makes Yeowool look back up at him, just in time to see Hansung’s eyes shining. “I waited a long time for you.”

“I know,” Yeowool says, heart both fluttering and breaking at the admission. He squeezes Hansung’s hand, feeling guilty and touched at the same time.

“Why did you wait for me?” he asks eventually, unable to stop himself. “You should have gone and found peace by yourself.”

Hansung shakes his head. “I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t leave without fixing what I’d done wrong.”

Yeowool frowns, uses his free hand to cup Hansung’s cheek. “You never did anything wrong, Hansungie.”

Hansung closes his eyes at the touch and gently shakes his head, a slow tear escaping to roll down his cheek. “I did.”

Yeowool has an idea about what Hansung is referring to and it breaks his heart to think that Hansung has been holding on for so long, clinging to the memory and feeling guilty all by himself.

“That day,” Hansung says, voice shaking. “I was rude to you that day. If I had known that it would be the last time– If I had known that I wouldn’t– “

Yeowool hushes him as he lets out a hiccup but it’s useless, Hansung already too worked up and the words coming out thick and fast.

“I should have been nicer,” Hansung insists, eyes brimming with tears, “You only ever wanted to be close to me and I was mean to you. I was just confused. I was always looking for Sun Woo but you were always there when I was looking, always there- “

“It’s okay,” Yeowool says again, trying to placate him because it really _was_ okay.

“You know I was just playing, right?” Hansung checks, eyes large and imploring.

“Yes, Hansungie,” Yeowool soothes, rubbing his thumb over Hansung’s soft cheek just in time to catch another stray tear. “Of course, I knew you were playing.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he says, heart breaking for the burden that the beautiful man in front of him had carried for so long. “You were always playing – I never thought for a second that you meant the mean things you said to me.”

“Of course, not,” Hansung agrees, nodding desperately, “I could never mean them.”

Yeowool offers him a soft smile, brushes some of his hair back behind his ear.

“You were the best person I knew,” Hansung says quietly.

Yeowool lets out a little laugh, surprising them both. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is,” Hansung says, indignant.

“Better than Sun Woo?”

“Better than everyone,” Hansung insists wetly. “You were always looking out for me, even when I didn’t realise it. You were so good to me and I was terrible to you.”

Yeowool shakes his head. “You weren’t terrible.”

“I should have been kinder.”

“Hansung,” Yeowool says and the firmness of his voice surprises even himself. “You were kind. You were good. You were so much more than you realise. You were the highlight of those training years. You know that, right? I only made it as a Hwarang because of you.”

“M-me?”

Yeowool nods. “I was so different from the rest of them. Yes, I came from the right family and yes, I could fight but I, like you, never wanted any of that.”

Hansung’s brow furrows in confusion. “But you were so good at it.”

“Because I had to be,” Yeowool admits. “Learning to adapt is important, Hansung, and it’s something I spent my whole life doing. Something you were just beginning to see before-”

“What do you mean?” Hansung prompts after a moment or two of silence.

“I mean,” Yeowool sighs, closing his eyes just as a tiny tear of his own escapes down his cheek. “I mean that life isn’t always kind to those who are different. You understand that, right? And I have always been different. So, to make life easier for myself, I had to hide that difference. Pretend, so to speak.”

“That isn’t fair, hyung,” Hansung pouts. Yeowool manages another small smile for him.

“I think what happened to you was far less fair.”

Hansung shakes his head, ignoring Yeowool’s words. “So, what happened? Did you live all these years pretending?”

“I did,” Yeowool says, and he feels a weight off his shoulders for the first time in a long time. Honesty is so relieving. “I married a lovely local girl and we had children and then some grandchildren much later. Great-grandchildren after that. We had a farm, some animals.”

Hansung, bless his heart, smiles. Yeowool smiles too, but it’s much sadder.

“It was nice,” Yeowool says, tightening his grip on Hansung’s hand where they were still laced together between them. “But it was pretend.”

Hansung seems confused. “What was pretend?”

“I didn’t love her. She was nice and we had a decent life together. It should have been everything I could hope for, but it wasn’t.”

“Why not?”

Yeowool sighs. He knows Hansung might not get it but he hopes anyway. He figures that if this is the last time he’s going to have these memories and if he has been lucky enough to get this chance to see Hansung again, then it’s his last chance to make anything of it and he’s not going to throw it away.

“Because she wasn’t you.” Yeowool admits, eyes trained on Hansung’s. Hansung’s eyes widen, his mouth opening to speak but no words come out. Yeowool continues, undeterred, gently explaining things.

“The rumours about me being attracted to men were true, Hansung. I had hidden that part of me for so long, even in Hwarang I tried to deny it, but then you came along and suddenly I didn’t want to anymore. You were so open and so free, so loving and so unashamedly yourself. I wanted to be the same. That’s why I was so caring toward you,” Yeowool knows he’s blushing as he quietly adds, “I really liked you.”

“Hyung,” Hansung whispers.

“I didn’t know how to say it at the time so I didn’t say anything,” he explains, looking down at their hands in shame. “Even though you had inspired me, I was still so used to pretending. It wasn’t until you died that I realised that I didn’t just like you – it was something more. It was – “

“Love,” Hansung interrupts. Yeowool blinks up at him, startled into silence. “You loved me.”

“Yes,” Yeowool says eventually, his throat tightening. He thinks his own honesty and vulnerability is choking him. “I did. I’m sorry.”

Hansung frowns. “What are you sorry for?”

“For everything,” Yeowool says. The weight of the moment, the relief of being honest after so long holding it all in and keeping it all to himself, finally hits and two fat tears cascade down his cheeks. “For pretending like we were just friends when I thought of you as more. For not being honest with you.”

Hansung shakes his head but Yeowool keeps speaking despite himself.

“I was never honest. My wife knew I didn’t love her the way she loved me. I did love her, just in a different way, and she loved me enough to accept that. We were happy. I learned to keep that part of me locked away, learned to stop being so noticeable. It helped that Hwarang went on many quests. I never had to hide with them because they knew me, the real me, the me I was with you, and never said a word. Whenever people tried to say anything bad about me, they all defended me. Of course, they weren’t always there, but I handled it. It wasn’t all bad. I promise. Just lonely.”

Yeowool can’t help but remember the dark times he faced, the abuse that had been painted on the fence of Hwarang house targeting him, the rotten vegetables thrown his way after particularly suspicious rumours started circulating about him and another Hwarang. Hansung’s eyes are red and there are wet trails down his cheeks and Yeowool forces a smile, trying to cover up the truth like he always has for the benefit of someone else.

“Hyung,” he says, voice wobbly. “You should have said something.”

“I couldn’t burden you with it then,” Yeowool shakes his head. “But now that it’s all over with, it felt right to say something.”

Hansung reaches out and grips his hands in the front of Yeowool’s robes. “You should have said something,” he insists, shaking the fabric in frustration, “You should have burdened me.”

“Why?” Yeowool asks, surprised by the sudden shift in mood and Hansung’s demeanour.

“Because I felt the same way!” Hansung blurts, “I _feel_ the same way!”

Yeowool’s jaw drops but Hansung continues like he hasn’t noticed.

“I was just a kid then, I didn’t know what it meant, but I’ve had so long to think and now I know. Maybe if you had said something, it would have been different. I might have known earlier. I waited to apologise to you, yes, but I also waited because I missed you. I waited because I wanted more than anything to have the chance to see you one last time, to make things right if nothing else. You should have told me. We could have – “

It doesn’t take much for Yeowool to close the gap and interrupt Hansung’s wet rambling with a soft kiss, their mouths meeting like maybe they were always supposed to. It’s gentle, it’s sweet, it’s decades overdue. Yeowool moves both hands to cup Hansung’s cheeks, brushing across the tear tracks with his thumbs, holding him in place as their lips remain against each other, soft but firm. Hansung sags against him and sighs into the kiss, a noise of relief that Yeowool feels in his bones. The kiss ends far too son, only to be replaced by another chaste press of lips and another after that. They break apart slowly, eventually, and Yeowool presses their foreheads together.

“Hansung, I’m so sorry.” Yeowool says, feeling like his heart is breaking as tears continue to fall, reality settling in heavily on him. “We wasted so much time.”

Hansung draws back, uses his sleeve to wipe over Yeowool’s wet cheeks. “I know,” he says, voice thick with tears but a small smile still on his lips. “It’s okay.”

“I should have been braver,” Yeowool says. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Hansung admits sadly. “At least we know now.”

“We could have had so much more,” Yeowool can’t help but think of all the things that could have been different if he hadn’t been so scared.

“Or we could have had less,” Hansung points out carefully. “Yes, I wish you had said something, but I would rather have what we had than have nothing at all.”

Yeowool closes his eyes, making more tears fall, but he can’t help himself. Hansung is too beautiful of a person, even now, and it makes Yeowool ache for so many reasons. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell for too long, though, desperate to look at Hansung for as much of their time together as he can manage. Even if it hurts.

“You know that people have five lives, don’t you?” Hansung says, catching Yeowool’s attention again as he interlaces their fingers once more. “My grandmother told me so. If people are connected, then they meet again in every life they live. I believe that. We will meet again, I’m sure of it.”

“Hansung,” Yeowool’s voice cracks, astounded, even now, by his dongsaeng’s bright attitude.

“No, hyung, I’m positive we’ll meet again,” Hansung takes their joined hands and settles them over his heart, reaching over to place his hand over Yeowool’s heart too. Yeowool tries not to sob as Hansung smiles reassuringly at him. “We’re connected. In the next life, we’ll be smarter, braver. We’ll have more time.”

“Okay,” Yeowool agrees. How could he not agree when Hansung looks so hopeful and the idea sounds so perfect? Five lifetimes of loving Hansung – what Yeowool wouldn’t give for that much time.

At that, the man from earlier comes slinking back into the room, soft but present, like he’s sorry to interrupt even though he has a job to do. A job that has him now carrying two tea cups instead of the one he’d left with. The two watch as he sets the cups down in front of them. The man doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to. They all know what it means.

Yeowool and Hansung turn back to face each other one last time, both looking worse for wear with tear-stained faces and sad, resigned smiles in place. Yeowool squeezes his hand before taking it back, moving both of them to cup Hansung’s face. Hansung copies the gesture, the two of them just holding each other in their hands.

“Things could have been so different,” Yeowool comments, voice wistful as he takes in Hansung’s features, dying to memorise them despite knowing he’ll forget once he drinks the tea.

“But we had fun, right?” Hansung says, watching Yeowool just as closely with his smile in place. “Whatever happened, we had fun.”

“Yeah,” Yeowool says, lip quivering. “Yeah we did.”

Hansung grins and kisses him briefly. It’s over too soon, leaving Yeowool licking his lips to savour the feeling and missing the warmth of Hansung’s hands on his cheeks. Hansung picks up their tea cups and hands Yeowool his. Yeowool wastes no time in takes Hansung’s free hand and laces their fingers together again, as if being physically connected will keep them emotionally connected like Hansung says they are.

“My time with you was the best of my life,” Yeowool admits thickly, because his heart is hammering in his chest and if he can’t say it now, he knows he never will. Fresh tears spring in his eyes. “I love you.”

Hansung grins, his eyes and smile equally watery. “I know. I love you, too, hyung.”

It’s hard. Maybe even harder than losing him the first time because now he knows what he’s losing. He’s been through it once before and it hurt like hell and now he’s not only losing Hansung again but losing all the memories of him too. It feels like there’s a vice around his heart, tightening with each second they spend together, knowing that their time is ticking down into single digits. This is the last time he’s ever going to spend with Hansung. The last time he’s going to look at that face. The last time he’s going to think fondly of their shared memories. This is the last moment, _their_ last moment. And only a grim reaper will remember it.

Yeowool clutches Hansung’s hand harder and they watch each other closely, silently counting down before they tip the teacups back into their mouths, drinking the tea down easily. It’s sweet to taste but Yeowool still grimaces, setting his teacup down with a little more force than necessary. He looks to the grim reaper who merely looks apologetic.

Hansung sets his cup down too and rises from his seat. “Come on, hyung,” he says, “It’s time to go.”

Yeowool follows but pauses near the doorway. He looks back to the grim reaper, who’s staring at the cups like he wishes this wasn’t his job. Yeowool bows deeply to him.

“Thank you,” he says and catches sight of the man’s surprised expression as he straightens up again. “You have given me a gift I could never repay you for.”

Hansung smiles and copies Yeowool, bowing deeply as well. “Thank you, sunbaenim, for allowing me to wait.”

The grim reaper is startled, as if he’s never been thanked for his job before, and merely nods his head at them both. Satisfied, they turn to face the door they’d been about to exit through. The last exit.

Hansung winds his hand into Yeowool’s, gripping tightly.

“Ready, hyung?” he asks, glancing over at him.

Yeowool glances beside him at Hansung, eyes catching on all the little details in his beautiful face – those long lashes, that wide grin, the subtle beauty marks. He leans in and kisses Hansung gently, chastely, on the lips.

“Ready,” he says, and Hansung opens the door, leading them both out.

The grim reaper watches them go, a pang of guilt settling low in his stomach. He had listened to their conversation, feeling worse as time had gone on. He had allowed them to meet because he was soft and Hansung had been so sad when he’d arrived at the teashop all those years ago. Now, having seen them together and having heard their words, he feels even worse.

He collects the teacups and carries them into the back of his store where there’s a row with two empty box-shelves, deliberately left for this moment. He walks past the other cups in the row and remembers their owners, a pink cup for Suho, green for Ban Ryu, red for the King, Ji Dwi, blue for Sun Woo and the purest white cup for Ahro. He sets Hansung’s yellow cup in the empty box-shelf that follows, placing Yeowool’s grey cup in the box beside that. He can’t help but sigh, adjusting the pottery in the boxes, glad to be able to keep them all together even if it's only in this small, insignificant way.

Their love was bittersweet and badly timed but Hansung and Yeowool were just grateful to have had it at all. Despite their bad luck, they were somehow still so hopeful that they would find each other again, one day in another life, and get the timing right so they could love each other the way they wanted to, the way they were supposed to.

The grim reaper frowns, feeling sorry for the two young men, knowing that only one of them has any more lives remaining. 

**Author's Note:**

> Eeeeeee I hope you liked it! Sorry for contributing to the sad Hwarang fics. Like I said in the start notes, I do have another fic in the works that is more like the other fic I posted for this fandom than it is like this one, so hopefully that's some consolation. Again, any and all feedback is welcome. Thanks for reading!


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